


Behind the Sea

by idekman



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Depends, E/R - Freeform, Les Amis - Freeform, Les Miserables - Freeform, Multi, general les amis shenanigans, hotel au, les mis hotel au, les miserables hotel au, maybe? - Freeform, probably smut?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-08 05:07:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idekman/pseuds/idekman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The beach, sailing, a hotel, the worst waiting staff in the whole of Cornwall and a dog named Apollo. </p><p>Les Amis - Hotel AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Beginning

_A Beginning_

Enjolras shows Combeferre the small, crumbling hotel on a sunny day where the pair of them are crammed into their shared office, heavy curtains turning the room dark and stuffy. His response is, as usual, particularly underwhelmed – he meets Enjolras’ suggestion with a shrug, after peering at the computer screen over his reading glasses.

But Enjolras takes it as a yes – _of course he does_ , Combeferre muses, somewhat irritably, when he gets the email on his phone at one o clock in the morning – and books them a meeting with the owner for the following Saturday.

(As well as having no concept of time, or appropriate consent to job propositions, Enjolras has apparently completely lost any sense of practicality. His shoulders slump when Combeferre points out a half hour meeting will necessitate a five-hour drive.)

And that’s how they accept the job, really. Because Combeferre can’t be bothered to drive half the length of bloody England just for a meeting. So, a few emails later, and they’re on their way to a new job at _The Hotel Musain_.

-

Combeferre can’t help but grumble and gripe and worry for the entire trip – particularly when Enjolras won’t let him drive his tin-box, piece of shit car. Enjolras is excellent at many things, including but not limited to; writing and giving motivational speeches – his old job – propping up failing businesses – his current job – surreally, playing the kazoo – _I was in a band in Prep School_ – and has an excellent typing speed. However, whilst Enjolras is pro at applying that planet-sized brain to the most complex of plans and issues, he’s a shit driver, and Combeferre spends ninety percent of the journey sure he’s going to die.

The other ten percent is spent musing. A while ago, he and Enjolras’s business advice company had been one of the most in-demand in London. The whole Wooloworths Debacle had happened, however, and after Enjolras’ all-too public moment of righteous injustice against Deloitte that had somehow ended up in the finance pages of The Daily Mail – _and then The Sun, and then The Guardian, and then bloody hell The Times and that was the end of that, wasn’t it?_ – they’d been dropped by their clients like they were going out of fashion.

So they’d relocated to a tiny, falling-apart office on Mile End and snatched up any jobs thatwere going.  _‘Scraps from the big guns’_ , Enjolras had cheerlessly labelled it. And sure, his best friend’s eyes are starting to look dull and there are some nights Combeferre’s sure Enjolras has been sleeping in the office but – well, he almost prefers this life. A quiet one, where the only one emailing him at one o clock in the morning is Enjolras.

And now, apparently, a quiet life located in a small, sea-side town in Cornwall, working to prop up a failed hotel owned by someone who, after some extensive googling, Combeferre can only assume is a psychopath, named Javert.

The sky is beginning to darken when they arrive and Enjolras looks particularly grumpy. Apparently he doesn’t appreciate Combeferre’s offer to buy him an ice cream cone _if you’re good_.

It starts to rain.

It is June.


	2. Eponine - and others, also of importance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre falls in love and Enjolras falls in - well, it's something.

They’ve been waiting for a good ten minutes now, suitcases in hand, dripping rainwater onto a grotty, sand-encrusted carpet. The hotel leads straight onto the beach and Enjolras wonders if the golden retriever stretched across the reception door is a regular. It doesn’t seem to belong to anybody.

In fact, with a dawning sense of horror, Enjolras realises he isn’t even sure it’s _alive_.

Forcing his gaze away, he tunes back into the receptionist’s telephone conversation. She’s been _mmm_ -ing and _yep_ -ing for what feels like eons and even Combeferre – ever-patient, gentle and good Combeferre – looks just about ready to run her through with an ice cream cone.

‘Yep, sure – I’ll just write that down for you sir,’ the woman tells the unfortunate soul on the other end of the phone. There is a short pause in which she pulls out a pack of sticky-notes, looks at them contemplatively before shutting them away in the desk draw again. ‘Alright – we look forward to your stay with us. Thank you, sir.’

The phone clicks back into its receiver – chunky, ’80s style, the whole hotel looks like it’s missed the turn of the new millennium – and the girl on the desk replaces her deadened _on the phone_ expression with an unconvincing smile.

‘Good afternoon. How may I help you?’

There is a pause. Enjolras’ gritted teeth make it clear that however irritated Combeferre _thinks_ he is, if he is forced to speak in this moment the only sounds to come out will be a mix of profanities and rabid gargling. So Combeferre bravely pipes up;

‘Hi, we’re here to –’

‘I’ll get Eponine for you,’ the woman – _Musichetta,_ according to her name badge – interrupts almost immediately, swiftly disappearing from sight.

The silence is weighted.

‘It’s... _quaint_ ,’ Combeferre offers kindly. When Enjolras remains tight-lipped, his friend continues, ‘and if you murder someone on your first day we _definitely_ won’t get paid. We’ve gotta find a decent hiding place for the bodies first.’ This, at last, coaxes a quirked lip from Enjolras which, in turn, draws a grin from Combeferre.

‘It’s fixable,’ Enjolras eventually comments, half to himself, voice low. The wall paper is ragged and peeling in some places. The carpet looks like it’s been round longer than he has and – oh, _Jesus Christ_ , that dog _still_ hasn’t moved and _is it actually dead because that’s a really bad start to a new job –_

But there’s some nice paintings on the wall, all in a distinct smudged style, some framed poetry too, and it gives him hope. It’ll never be The Ritz - or more comparatively, The Tresanton. But not everyone _wants_ a Tresanton – instead, with some work ( _and re-staffing_ , Enjolras grimly reflects on the receptionist. Who _still_ hasn’t returned) it might just be quaint.

Rather than a _clusterfuck of a business_ , which is the only term he can find to describe it at the moment.

Combeferre must catch the soured expression on his face because, abruptly, there’s a hand on his arm, serious gaze seeking out his own. Sometimes Enjolras forgets that Combeferre had been in his third year at uni when he was a simple Fresher, that Combeferre had let him, inexperienced and entirely too idealistic, become his business partner on a gamble. It is moments like this that Enjolras remembers that whilst Combeferre is not the leader, he is not the follower either – he is the guide.

‘Hey – we don’t _need_ this job, Enjolras. We can go home, pick up other work in other places –’

‘No, no, it’s fine,’ Enjolras interrupts hastily, because _God knows_ he is _this_ close and if Combeferre tempts him any further –

‘Hello, you two alright?’

It’s another dark-haired beauty, come to replace the receptionist – but she is entirely different from Musichetta. The girl before him looks vaguely professional, dressed simply in a white blouse and black pencil skirt – matched, inexplicably, with flip-flops. ‘Sorry,’ she abruptly laughs, shuffling behind the desk, emerging in a pair of flats. ‘About ‘Chetta, too – sorry – she’s entirely useless but we do love her. I’m Eponine, manager and general lay-about; how do you do?’

‘Enjolras,’ he returns, relieved at the semblance of professionalism and the firm grasp of her handshake.

He has _no_ idea why Combeferre looks quite so gormless when Eponine turns to him, but Enjolras has to nudge his friend in the ribs _twice_ before he perks up. He’s willing to chalk it up to the long drive until he spots the faint blush and stutter as Combeferre introduces himself. Eponine’s got a wicked grin to her as she holds onto Combeferre’s hand a few seconds too long, and Enjolras doesn’t know whether to smirk or clip his friend round the back of the head.

‘So, boys –’ this produces another blush from Combeferre and a choked spluttering sound, ‘how can I help you?’

‘We’re here on behalf of _Red & Black Ltd. _– Javert was aware that the hotel has run into some issues, financially and commercially, and has hired us to...’ Enjolras trails off at the blank look on Eponine’s face. ‘I’m assuming Javert contacted you about this?’

The manager at least has the decency to look embarrassed.

‘Probably got caught up with Musichetta,’ she winces apologetically. ‘But – no matter, I know now! You boys are welcome to stay as long as you like – we’ve plenty of empty rooms. Half the staff live here most of the year round - 'specially round now. Tourist season - it gets _so_ busy.'

The hotel echoes queit around them. Faintly, there is the sound of a couple arguing and children screeching on the beach, despite the rain.

'Well, if you just pop your suitcases over there, I’ll show you around and introduce you to everyone. Does that sound alright?’

Enjolras is _fairly_ sure he’s been presented with a choice. Yet Eponine speaks so rapidly and with such determination, chattering over her shoulder as she already leads them away, that Enjolras isn’t sure he’s even _allowed_ to question her. You don’t fuck around with a hurricane.

However, his inner professional is _screaming_ at him, even if Combeferre is content to traipse after the girl like a love-sick puppy, so he has to ask;

‘You’re sure – you don’t want to see any paper work, or ring Javert, or –’

‘It’s alright. You two don’t seem the likely suspects to be running an elaborate scam on me,’ Eponine reassures him, and Enjolras is _almost_ sure that was a compliment, until she adds; ‘you’re not clever enough.’

_Charming_.

Her hand is already on the door handle leading to a particularly desolate corridor when it happens. There is swearing, a clatter, a discontented bark, and the group of three turn to stare.

A skinny, slip of a human being, soaked to the skin, is scratching the _(apparently not so dead)_ dog’s ear _(well isn’t that a comfort)_ and muttering away at it. The golden retriever struggles to its feet and pushes gently at the hand, searching for food. Finding none, he is content to sit through the adoration and petting being bestowed upon him.

‘I didn’t realise guests were allowed pets,’ Enjolras murmurs to Eponine after a second’s observation – but the sound carries and the tangle of limbs and wet clothes looks up at him through dark curls.

For a moment, he is struck. Enjolras has managed to convince himself he’s not interested in sex, or women, or men – but if he _were_.

Those brilliant blue eyes and the rasp of stubble alone would be enough to undo him. Enjolras suddenly feels like a teenager again.

‘This is no ordinary dog!’ The man – _boy?_ He looks innocent and impossibly aged behind the eyes all at once – proclaims, voice indignant and a little odd-sounding, as if his mouth has suddenly run dry. He clears his throat – _that Adam’s apple, fuck_ _–_ and starts up again, impassioned and ridiculous all at once. ‘This dog is as much a part of the _Hotel Musain_ as its bricks, its windows, the sea at his feet – this dog’s name is Apollo and _he is no pet_!’

There is silence and Enjolras has no idea if he’s meant to take that seriously or not. Fortunately, Eponine cracks up by his side and Grantaire lets loose a long, lazy grin that has something in his stomach flipping.

‘Grantaire isn’t a guest,’ Eponine explains as he turns away, apparently searching for something amongst the clutter of the reception. ‘He cleans – badly – and... Well, fuck, what else do we pay you for, Grantaire?’

‘My charming personality and sparkling wit,’ Grantaire calls into a bucket, smooth voice muffled and echoing strangely. He finally pulls out and air pump and disappears back into the rain, Apollo waddling obediently behind him. Enjolras relaxes, glad to be able to concentrate on something other than _eyes teeth collarbones stubble_ fuck _Adam’s Apple and – pull yourself together, Jesus_ –

‘Christ, it’s pissing harder than an eighty year-old man on a fucking pub crawl out there,’ Grantaire swings back round the doorway, snagging a waterproof off the hook and almost immediately leaving again, his parting blow a wink aimed in Enjolras’ general direction.

‘He _works_ here?’ Combeferre asks, disbelief colouring his tone. At least he’s managed to string a coherent sentence together by now.

‘Yep – he practically owns the place in all but name and finance. Which, unfortunately, are the important bits,’ Eponine narrates breezily as she leads them away. ‘But it’s his paintings on the wall, it's his dog that's taken up permanent bloody residence in reception. His boat, too – he’s got this little Pico he takes some of the kids out on. It’s _meant_ to just be for customers of the hotel, but he’ll teach anyone who wants to learn, so _of course_ the parents love him and the Sailing Club hates him. But he gets away with it, because...’ Eponine trails off, wary she’s said too much, until Enjolras echoes her.

‘Because?’

‘Grantaire’s been around here longer than me, longer than Javert, longer than those yuppies at the Sailing Club – his parents used to own the place. He grew up here.’

‘Used to? What happened to them?’

Enjolras is aware he’s being nosy when Eponine shoots him a coolly arched eyebrow and even Combeferre gives a strange look – because he knows better than anyone that Enjolras never asks questions. Enjolras is never curious. Enjolras never wants to know more unless it’s about _your view on current Conservative policies - the bedroom tax, tell me, what are your thoughts? The NHS reforms are just_ - and he hasn’t even bothered with that for a while. It’s not that he doesn’t care, or that he’s being cruel – his brain simply doesn’t work that way. He’ll find out what he wants to know from a quick once-over and maybe a Google.

Apparently, with Grantaire, he wants more than an internet search result.

Eponine shrugs, breaking the sudden spell, and they continue on down the corridor.

‘I don’t know. I never asked – it’s not my place.’ There’s a lightness to her tone as she and tells them – except she’s looking at Enjolras with something like a challenge in her eyes and a _back off_ in the set of her mouth as she turns and tells them

‘Right. Time for you to meet the boys. And Joly.’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Musichetta face-claim is Oona Chaplin. I feel the need to share this with you because she is gorgeous.  
> You can stick to your own face-claims for the other characters (I know some people like a Hadley Fraser Grantaire or a Nick Jonas Marius - seriously? You want to try that one again? Really?) but it might be fairly clear through physical descriptions what face-claims I'm going for.  
> The Tresanton is also a real place. It's a bloody expensive hotel in St. Mawes, where this fic is set.   
> Next chapter: Jehan is an amazing cook, Marius is a shit waiter and Joly's a really good cleaner.


	3. The boys. And Joly.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Joly cleans, Jehan cooks well, Courfeyrac does nothing much and Marius waits on tables (badly). Apollo returns.

_The boys. And Joly_

They more discover Joly than are introduced to him. Enjolras nearly trips over his feet – encased in flip-flops, he notes with some irritation. There’s a small squeak and Joly shuffles backwards, on hands and knees, out of one of the rooms.

‘Hello!’ He chirps, a mixture of a familiar greeting for Eponine and curiosity at the two new-comers.

‘This is Joly – our best cleaner. He is fighting a constant valiant war against germs.’

‘You won’t believe the muck that gets under doors,’ he tells them seriously, explaining his position on the floor. He dips the toothbrush he has just waggled at them back into the bucket of disinfectant and carpet cleaner and carries on, content, whistling as he works.

‘Joly’s a bit of a hypochondriac. For his birthday last year I got him ten boxes of hand sanitizer as a joke – he cried and hugged me,’ Eponine whispers, leading them down more corridors and through a small room containing a television and a few ragged sofas. Toys scatter the floor and, from the looks of things, it’s a den parents can abandon their children in for a while. This doesn’t seem to deter the room’s only occupant, an aged man who’s sat watching ' _Antique’s Road Show'_ with avid concentration.

Enjolras is half-tempted to sit down and join him. Except it would be too difficult, explaining to Combeferre that _yes_ , whilst _no, I don’t own a television, I know, just call me Jesus reborn it’s_ that _shocking, 'Antiques Road Show'_ is the only show he makes sure to watch on iPlayer each week.

‘Eponine, my dear, how are you?’ The man smiles, voice firmer and stronger than Enjolras had expected. The rain continues to pelt against the windows, dim light highlighting the lines traipsing across the old man’s hands, the dull shadows beneath his eyes.

‘Excellent, Jean – do you need a hand getting about today?’

From anyone else it might sound patronising, but there’s such genuine care in Eponine’s voice and such an eased smile fluttering across her face that Enjolras supposes it would be quite impossible to feel condescended to. Unfortunately, Enjolras hasn’t had the pleasure of feeling this way in Eponine’s presence yet.

‘I should be quite alright with my stick, but Cosette is coming to visit me later, so we’ll be taking tea in the dining room,’ Jean smiles up at her before his eyes, dark and lined, flit over the two men accompanying Eponine. Enjolras’ throat bobs almost anxiously under the gaze – he feels as if he has been known from one wise look, and hopes he’s presented the best of himself in that split-second of observation.

‘New guests? You make a lovely couple, by the way.’

Their body language is all wrong for a couple. Jean knows that. Both Eponine and Enjolras know that he knows that. Yet Combeferre – who is usually so composed and has apparently had a minor mental breakdown in the past half hour – splutters, flushing bright red as he forces out,

‘We’re not – I – I’m not gay!’

His gaze slides over Enjolras’s judging, raised eyebrow to meet Eponine’s frown, as if to really ram the message home. He is met with a curved mouth and, if it is possible, blushes a deeper red.

‘Of course.’

‘They’re new staff, here to do... _Something_ ,’ Eponine trails off, shooting a daring glance to Enjolras and trying not to laugh. If Eponine is good at anything – she is, in fact, good at many things, but this is her particular talent – it’s winding people up.

‘I’ll ask Jehan to get two cream teas together – give Cosette my love,’ she smiles, leading the two men out and away again. Enjolras is beginning to feel like a bloody sheep.

Still. Only a few more corridors, a few more twists and turns, and Eponine pauses. Another hand on another doorway.

‘Now – uh, the boys. I have to warn you, they’re a little – um... _Enthusiastic._ Actually, you know what, it’s largely Courfeyrac; don’t let him hug you and for _God’s_ sake don’t take his Maoams. I don’t know _what_ he does to them but –’

Eponine is interrupted by the door opening, handle wrenched from her grasp, and a shrill scream.

Enjolras is beginning to wonder what the _fuck_ he got himself into. He turns to Courfeyrac for help, but by the look on his face _he’s_ wondering what Eponine’s favourite kind of flower is.

_Bloody brilliant._

-

Jean Prouvaire – also known as Jehan – has a delicate but borderline-clumsy grace to his movements in day-to-day life.

But in the kitchen he is a streamlined streak of light, beautiful and fearless and a sight to behold. He more _dances_ than moves around the hob, tunelessly singing along to Beatles songs as sauces bubble and whatever he’s cooking – Marius and Courfeyrac are never sure until it’s all on a plate, and sometimes not even then – hiss back at him. Sometimes, when he gets a particularly dull order he ignores it, serving up whatever he likes instead, weird and wonderful dishes Courfeyrac and Marius are often afraid to deliver. He’s never had any complaints though – except that one time he’d tried to give someone Thai fish curry at breakfast. Fortunately, he’d managed to pacify the woman with porridge coated in burnt sugar and cinnamon, accompanied by his famous chilli hot chocolate. It was described by one local paper as _‘the sole selling point of the hotel’_.

Out of the kitchen, Jehan is a polite and loving young man. In it, he is a visionary, and Courfeyrac finds him better entertainment than the telivision. This leaves Marius to do the majority of waiting on tables. Which he is spectacularly bad at.

One time he’d dropped a bowl of Jehan’s painstakingly-made gnocchi and the pair of them had cried.

So when Jehan and Courfeyrac hear the scream, they barely react; Marius is easily startled and clumsy so they’ve gotten used to hearing his squeaks, yells and thuds (he falls over a lot) on a regular basis. At the voices, however, low and unfamiliar, muffled by the kitchen door, Courfeyrac’s face lights up. Snatching Jehan’s hand, barely giving him time to turn off the hob – the restaurant is, as usual, utterly dead and Jehan wants to know what smoked gammon takes like fried in a sandwich. It's basically a posh bacon sandwich – the pair spring out of the kitchen.

‘...gap year, he’s almost as new as you two –’

Eponine is interrupted by Courfeyrac’s screech of _new people_ as he bounds over to them, gleeful, Jehan following at a more leisurely pace.

Enjolras flinches as arms are thrown round his shoulders and lets out a most undignified _yelp_ when fingers pinch his arse and he can see _why she said not to let him hug me, this must be Courfeyrac, bloody hell_.

‘Gosh, Ep, these two are _beautiful_. How long are they staying?’ Coufeyrac finally speaks up after pecking Combeferre on the cheek and popping a maoam in Enjolras’ gaping mouth. It tastes fine but he meets Eponine’s warning gaze and obediently spits it out into a tissue when no one’s looking. Because, if anyone could slip hallucinatory drugs into a maoam, it _would_ be these two, holding hands and looking entirely too innocent.

‘They’re not guests, they’re staff. Javert hired them to do... something suitably vague and no doubt incredibly dull,’ Eponine tells them – more to get a rise than anything else. She is successful.

‘ _Actually_ , we are here to repair this –’ and he _almost_ says _clusterfuck_ , a word on the list of _‘things I’m not allowed to say to clients any more’_ that Combeferre had pinned up on Enjolras’ fridge. Except Courfeyrac interrupts with excessive cheer,

‘Brilliant! Eponine, have you told them about the time –’

‘Courf’s not allowed to tell stories anymore,’ Jehan cuts in, voice sweet yet firm, squeezing the hand clasped in his. ‘Not to new people – remember when you made Marius cry?’

Courfeyrac slumps a little guiltily as the referred-to teenager blushes profusely. Eponine swiftly changes the topic with a roll of her eyes and Combeferre falls that _little_ bit more in love with her. _Again_.

‘Cosette’s coming to visit Mr Val Jean so could you make up some cream teas, Jehan?’

Jehan and Courfeyrac share a look that says _lavender scones!_ – their favourite – and disappear back into the kitchen after Eponine kisses them both on the cheek in thanks. Jehan gets one on both cheeks because he likes to pretend he’s French from time to time.

Enjolras expects she knows everything about the people she works with – and he would be right. She knows that Marius doesn’t like being kissed, or touched in general, because he can barely _talk_ to women let alone have – God forbid – _physical contact_ with one, _bless him_. He does, however, like the occasional hi-five for a job well done. Courfeyrac enjoys hugs the most, and will cuddle anyone. Joly will accept any sort of hug or kiss but will bluntly disinfect himself afterwards (which can be quite disconcerting) and Grantaire hates all of it, so she is most affectionate with him, just to piss him off.

Of course she knows. It is her job and they are her friends.

‘Come on then, you two, let’s get you settled in,’ Eponine sighs, leading them away as Marius tries to get the pair in the kitchen to tell him who Cosette is.

-

Enjolras finds himself on the third floor that night, his mind a flurry of half-remembered names and surreal stories – _Marius just met Cosette and he spilled milk all over her. I think they’re in love!_ – and shuffles into his room. He’s still reeling from an argument – _I want to go home (said like a petulant child),_ met with _for God’s sake, it’s not that bad_ – that had ended with Combeferre telling him quite firmly _it’ll be good for you._ Enjolras isn’t sure what that’s supposed to mean, but his friend had wandered off grumbling about _sleeping in the office, for Christ’s sake_ , so Enjolras supposes Combeferre’s _worried_ about him. He scoffs as he gets into bed and turns off the light, quite frankly relieved for _a moment’s peace from that bunch of howling, idiotic –_

 

Someone in the room above him has had the same song, on repeat, at full volume for two hours now. He doesn’t know who the girl singing is but quite frankly he doesn’t give a damn about how troublesome her significant other is. He hopes she gets run over while she’s lying on the cold hard ground and never gets up to sing another verse.

He heads to the kitchen to get some tea, hoping to lull himself to sleep.

Instead, Enjolras’ yelp of surprise as he nearly goes flying to the floor echoes down the corridor. At his feet, Apollo, the indomitable golden retriever, is sprawled out across his doorway.

He gives up on the tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All and any references to cream scones are inspired by Imo, aka JaguarCello - go look at her fic 'Cause and Effect'.  
> Next chapter: Enjolras is not a morning person, more Grantaire, and Marius reveals a weird and wonderful skill...


	4. Chapter 4 (part one)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An argument, unresolved.

It’s been a week since he last saw him.

Grantaire supposes that he must be holed up in the office – it’s technically Javert’s, but the hotel owner lives in Plymouth and is never here. The only sign of life from the place is Combeferre hurrying to fetch coffee, sending increasingly frantic smiles and talking loudly to cover the sounds of Enjolras’ exasperated shouts from within. It isn’t until the second day and the six thousandth cup that Jehan starts giving them decaf.

Yet even that hasn’t drawn the god away from his work. So it’s been a whole seven days since Grantaire has seen the man who had caught his attention so thoroughly – _mouth dry, skin tight_ – and frankly he’s getting impatient.

He _could_ – God forbid – handle the situation like an adult, could search him out and simply have a chat. Maybe ask him out for a coffee or an ice cream or fish and chips on the beach –

These are any number of sane options, the type usually chosen by properly functioning human beings. But it’s Grantiare, and Grantaire doesn’t _think_ like this. It doesn’t occur to him that Enjolras would ever accept – let alone _want_ – to date. Kiss. _Fuck talk touch_ – and Grantaire isn’t  sure _what_ he wants now. All he knows is that since he encountered that sweep of rusty curls, darkened and weighted by rain water that had dragged over his collar bones and into the lines of his shirt _– distracted again_ – he can think of nothing else. And, apparently, the only solution he can find is obscenely childish. If Enjolras will not reveal himself of his own accord, Grantaire will have to draw the man out himself. At half past five in the morning.

Jehan lives in the hotel, and while he and Courfeyrac have their own rooms – _the day this hotel has no spare rooms the sun might as well fall_ – it’s not unusual to find them sharing. Usually Jehan’s, because Courfeyrac’s is frankly a _hole_ whilst Jehan’s is a floral explosion of beauty and incense candles. So the morning Grantaire decides action must be taken, he’s unsurprised to find the pair wound round one another, limbs flung this way and that. He takes a moment to appreciate the juts of Jehan’s shoulder-blades, his sandy hair mixed with Courfeyrac’s dark mop. One man’s head is bent to rest on the other’s chest and Grantaire admits to himself that they make a very _pretty_ pair, alarmingly peaceful in the dawn grey light.

Until, that is, Courfeyrac is abruptly soaked in ice-cold water.

And if the couple share a room that so _happens_ to be on the same stretch of corridor as Enjolras’, and if Courfeyrac’s shrill scream, the resulting shrieks and shouts, thudding footsteps and ensuing chase – if it all _happens_ to wake Enjolras up, well… _So be it,_ Grantaire muses.

He appears after thirty seconds, puffing and fuming like an outraged bull.

 _A very_ pretty _outraged bull_. With what appears to be the world’s worst bed hair – _shit, how long must it take to tame that lot_? Grantaire resists the urge to reach out and flatten the matted, wild curls.

Fortunately _(or not)_ , he’s distracted by the fact that Enjolras obviously sleeps in his underwear and hadn’t bothered to put a t-shirt on to admonish them, and suddenly _my God does he just suck all the moisture from the air with his mere presence?_ The man appears to have no qualms about being stood before them half-naked, apparently having no concept of the effect the line of his collar bones, the golden hue of his skin, the narrow line of his hip bones, is having on Grantaire. Even the devoted Courfeyrac’s eyes have lit up.

‘What the _fuck_ are you two doing?’

Something in Grantaire dips and swoops at the swear word coming from such a pretty mouth. He shrugs his shoulders, blue eyes burning a challenge that seems to be considered and rejected by Enjolras. ‘Can you just retain a modicum of professionalism for _two minutes_ and not _cock about_ at half five in the _fucking morning_?’

Obviously not a morning person, then.

‘Well? What do you have to say for yourselves?’

Neither have the decency to look ashamed. Courfeyrac’s even starting to giggle behind his hand. Grantaire simply pulls a cigarette from his pocket and begins to light up, flat eyes meeting Enjolras’ steadily as something within him bristles at being treated like a naughty schoolchild. Even though _well wasn’t that sort of the point, stupid, stupid, stupid –_

‘Courfeyrac, I would expect better from you,’ Enjolras interrupts Grantaire’s internal tirade, voice low and disappointed, dripping with one too many corporate management courses.

‘Charming,’ Grantaire mumbles into the floor, half to himself, as he takes a drag on his cigarette. The smoke stings his throat, rough and heavy.

‘Put that out, you twat,’ comes the exasperated snap and when Grantaire looks up he finds himself far closer to Enjolras than he’d expected. The man’s a few bare inches from him, so close Grantaire can feel his breath ghosting across his skin, can see the scowl etched onto his otherwise flawless forehead in perfect, HD detail. He doesn’t dare meet those blue eyes for fear of suffering small stroke.

Still. He would die happy. To stand so close to the sun in this one moment.

Enjolras interprets Grantaire’s lack of response as a sullen rebellion and, without warning, jerks the cigarette from his mouth and strides over to the window to throw it away. When he turns back to them he’s speaking to both but looking – _glaring_ , actually – at Grantaire.

‘Either go back to bed or do some fucking work.’

Courfeyrac comes to stand by his side as they listen to the door slam shut, hand already reaching out to offer him a replacement cigarette. Both seem suitably chastised, although something is _burning_ inside Grantaire and he’s not sure if it’s irritation or –

‘Now, I know the idea that little boys are mean to girls because they like them is bullshit used to perpetuate the patriarchy – Eponine told me. And Cosette. And that film we watched. But,’ Courfeyrac’s words have been achingly careful up to this point, but now he sends Grantaire a long look and tries not to look too judgemental, ‘do I sense a little pigtail pulling here?’

‘Oh, fuck off Courf,’ Grantaire snaps, shoving his friend’s shoulder as he goes.

Too harsh. Courfeyrac knows something is wrong. He doesn’t know, however, that the usual feeling, usual itch, usual _useless useless fuck-up_ is rising in Grantaire.

 

Hours pass, jumbled and distracted, as Enjolras glares at his desk. The paperweight has done everything it can to piss him off, the keyboard deserves his upmost contempt, and as for the mouse –

He’s angry. With himself.

Each time he shuts his eyes all he can see is the flicker of hurt on Grantaire’s face after he’d snapped at him, the flash in those blue eyes. He’s not sure why the thought of having hurt Grantaire is so unsettling – he’s been ruder to Combeferre without a moment’s remorse – but, nevertheless, he can’t escape the tightening in his stomach as he replays their earlier conversation.

‘You’re being ridiculous,’ he mutters under his breath, earning a strange look from Combeferre, who is busy chattering away on the phone to Javert. The hotel owner lives too far away to come visit his failing business venture – one of many, Enjolras discovers, finding the man lives off the success of a singular case from his days as a private detective – but keeps a close eye on his two newest employees by phone, email and once – only once, Enjolras had made sure of that – via text. Enjolras doesn’t like texting, reserving the honour for his little sister alone. His parents get phone calls on birthdays, Christmas and, oddly, a curt email on the day of William and Kate’s wedding. He’d blocked all calls on the day of Prince George’s birth, preferring to stew in his Republican-fuelled bitterness alone.

Combeferre presses the phone into his shoulder and quickly asks,

‘Are you alright?’

He gets an irritated scowl in response – prompting Combeferre to quickly tell Javert _of course, of course – I’ll have to ring you back on that one, something’s come up. Kitchen emergency with the uh… um. Kettle. Yes – yes – ok, bye!_

Enjolras cant’ crack a smile. Combeferre is a notoriously bad liar.

However, the phone is eventually hung up and Combeferre is looking him over with a hard stare. He’d been exactly the same back in London, when they’d have a handful of major clients all at once, when the phone never stopped ringing. Enjolras misses those days – he’d barely had time to sleep but there was never an opportunity for his worries to fester and rot. By the time he’d started agonising over one issue, two bigger problems cropped up and he’d end up solving all three at once at one o clock in the morning. He’d saved one national bank from bankruptcy – he wasn’t allowed to tell anyone which one, it was in his contract – from collapse in ten minutes whilst eating a sandwich.

Everything is so _different_ now.

‘Fucking hell, Enjolras, how could you possibly be _stressed_ here? The phone’s barely rang in three days. It’s slower-going here than Katie Price taking on Tolstoy.’

Normally something like that would make Enjolras laugh – usually so he doesn’t have to admit he has no idea who Katie Price is – but now he just drags the palm of his hand over his eyes and tries not to glare at his friend.

‘It’s not – it’s not stress,’ he eventually mumbles, even as Combeferre is appearing over his shoulder to peer at the spreadsheet he’s been working on. A moment’s silent appraisal, and then –

‘Look – you’ve got your formula all wrong.’

‘ _Fuck_ ,’ Enjolras grinds out, burying his fingers into his curls when he realises he’s going to have start all over again. Trying to update the accounts from the enormous book Eponine had dug up for him has been a monstrous task – none of which has been aided by Eponine’s terrible handwriting, a post-note from Grantaire stuck in halfway through May explaining that he’s borrowed a tenner from the petty cash box and _“will repay with love”_. There’s also a note from Jehan in his beautiful, flowing script, explaining the kitchen needs a bigger budget for meat that is scribbled over an entire row of figures. It’s a mess, and he’s been working at it for days.

‘Look – I’ll fix it, alright? It won’t take me long,’ Combeferre offers easily enough, earning a look of horror from Enjolras.

‘’Ferre, it’ll take you _hours_. I –’

‘You never were much good with spreadsheets,’ Combeferre sighs out, a fond smile on his lips nevertheless. ‘You don’t need to do all this maths manually,’ he explains, gesturing towards Enjolras’ ancient calculator and reading glasses, abandoned on the desk. At Enjolras’ blank stare, Combeferre propels him out of the room. ‘ _Take a break_ , Enjolras. Ask Jehan to make you a sandwich.’

He’s nearly out of the door, hand pushing it open an inch, when he pauses, gathering his courage.

‘It’s not stress,’ he repeats, tone hollow, tinged with confusion. Combeferre watches his friend’s tense shoulders carefully, eyebrows twitching together. He adjusts his glasses almost instinctively, as if he were studying a row of tricky figures, a dissected animal, an essay on neo-political feminist theory. Enjolras, with his back turned, is unaware of his best friend’s analytical stare. ‘Grantaire, he… I’ve…’ he’s struggling for words now, mouth thick with unspoken sentences. Finally he manages, speaking to the wood of the doorway, ‘I’ve never been more pissed off with someone in my life.’

‘Not even George Osborne?’

Combeferre’s attempt at a joke is met with silence. He tries again, voice light and cautious.

‘When I was seventeen this girl in my ethics class annoyed the shit out of me. She was so opinionated, never stopped talking – was totally wrong about everything, of course. Far too liberal, totally naïve – we used to have these… these _raging_ arguments. Furious. Our teacher sent us both out of the classroom. I hated her. Never stopped complaining about her.

‘And then she started going out with the captain of the rugby team. And every day I think about what it might have been like if I’d stopped arguing with her for five minutes and bothered to sit down and ask her how her day was, rather than her views on Margaret Thatcher.’

Enjolras heads dips, revealing the sensitive nape of his neck to Combeferre for a moment. Finally, he leaves. The door clicks shut quietly behind him, and Combeferre is left to the silence of the office.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY I'VE BEEN AWAY.  
> Part 2 of this chapter up tomorrow probably idek.  
> FACE NOT HOUSE I MEANT FACE GOD DAMMIT.

**Author's Note:**

> IDEK this wasn't even my idea.  
> I hope you enjoy it. The fictional Hotel Musain is based in St Mawes (an actual real-life not fictional place. Google it).


End file.
